


losing you to you

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27783763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: Surely, there must be something—god knows Martin has been scratching at every wall, tearing through as much of this place as he can in search of something, anything, that could let Jon stay here in comfort.A moment, just a moment. It’s all he asks.But this morning, it had taken Jon entirely too long to recognize him.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 33
Kudos: 211





	losing you to you

**Author's Note:**

> this is set in Salesa's house!! I hope you enjoy!

The pair of them, the quiet, and two steaming cups of tea. It’s all Martin could ever hope to ask for.

And it’s terribly, horrifyingly wrong.

A small, persistent part of him wants so desperately to have some hope, some shred of optimism left that maybe, just maybe, the wisp of a man leaning into his chest may be able to rest. To heal. To find a way to exist here, without the Eye—without the evil that has been holding him together for so long. Surely, there must be something—god knows Martin has been scratching at every wall, tearing through as much of this place as he can in search of something, anything, that could let Jon stay here in comfort.

A moment, just a moment. It’s all he asks.

But this morning, it had taken Jon entirely too long to recognize him.

Martin.

_His_ Martin.

Even thinking about it now sends that same shiver up his spine, as it had when Jon—for the first time—turned to him with eyes entirely empty. Flat and lifeless, aberrant green faded back into rich brown, and still—still, a nothingness behind it all. He was not _Martin_ to him then, no—he had been a stranger. A stranger to the man he loves, and the only person in all the ruined world who loves him in return.

“Jon,” he calls softly, for what feels like the hundredth time that day. “You with me, love?”

“Mmm,” comes the dim response, throat cracking against the dryness, against the tea he had been unable to drink.

_Not good._

“Hey, open your eyes for me—can you look at me?”

“Mmm.”

“Look at me, Jon.”

A gentle shaking of his shoulder, fingers running though his hair—all serve to bring him around again, back to whatever level of awareness he’s capable of at the moment. Even as he does so, Martin prays to find a fever as he presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead; anything that would give him a sign that he’s just ill, that he can fix it, that he can find a way to make him well.

_Please let him be well._

“I’m—where?” he mutters, tensing bodily as wide eyes take in every inch of his surroundings, still so unfamiliar to him even after several days in this place.

“With me, love. Look at me,” Martin begs, heart pounding in his chest as Jon turns to him—shaking, panicked—moving his gaze over Martin’s form—

Empty. Unknown.

_Oh god oh god_

“It’s me, Jon. You’re safe, you’re here with me.”

Martin tries desperately to smile, to keep the tremor out of his voice, to stay calm. Hoping against hope that Jon just had a nightmare, was disoriented, was—

Anything but this.

“Wh-who—I-I don’t—”

“Martin—it’s Martin, love.”

_Please please please_

Wanting nothing more than to reach for him, to set the comforting warmth of his hand against Jon’s eternally-freezing skin, he knows he should not—not with the way his breath is picking up speed. Shattered—so shattered is Martin’s heart, he feels his own body begin to tremble with the anxious thought that this is it, that he is no longer loved, nor even recognized—

If the Lonely were able to reach this place, he is certain he would sink back into the fog.

“Take a breath with me, Jon,” he pleads, wringing his own hands together to keep from touching him. “You’re—you’re safe here, I promise. You’re safe.”

Jon moves away from him as much as possible in his state, eyes locked, a frightened animal who would certainly run, if only he could stand.

“Wh-who—” he asks, so lost and dizzy and confused that Martin is forced to reach for him before he tips off the side of the sofa.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pulling him upright as gently as he can, silently begging whoever may be in charge that Jon won’t be set back by his touch—

It appears his prayer is received—as Jon goes limp and falls into his chest.

“Oh oh oh, Jon,” he whispers in grief, pulling Jon downwards to rest his head against the pillows, recover, come back to him.

_Please wake up please wake up_

_Please remember_

So small, so terribly small does he look that Martin finds himself bracing against the sudden welling of tears. Had he always been this paper-thin? Such a wisp of a man, it’s a wonder Martin can’t see right through him.

_Never coming back, he’s never coming back, you’ve stayed too long and it’s all your fault, selfish selfish selfish—_

“M’tin?”

The spiral that threatened to overtake him begins to fade in the dawning light of Jon’s voice—rasping and painful as it may be—he’s looking at him, _really_ looking this time. Perhaps it’s not too late, perhaps he—

“Do you—do you know who I am, darling?” he asks shakily, unable to stop himself from running a hand through Jon’s locks, praying that it will bring them both comfort.

“You’re—Martin, you’re Martin,” he slurs vaguely, eyes fluttering closed intermittently in exhaustion.

“Good, that’s good, Jon,” Martin breaths in relief, the tightness in his chest unraveling just a bit at the fact that this was progress, that all was not lost—that he could still get Jon out of here, if he had to carry him.

“I-I don’t—I don’t—”

Immediately his chest clenches again, tight enough to be painful, to make his heart skip for just a moment.

_No no please no_

“You don’t what, love?” he asks as softly as his voice will go.

“I don’t—I can’t—remember. Who. Th-this,” he stammers, looking down at their joined hands. “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

The bottom has dropped out of Martin’s world—surely he’s falling through the empty air.

“But—my name, you—you remembered my name. Martin.”

“Martin, I…”

_Don’t say it don’t say it please don’t say it_

“Do I…do I love you?”

_God no no no_

His eyes—so earnest, honest—already filling with tears. Over a stranger. Over _him._

“Yes, Jon,” Martin gasps, trying and failing to choke back sobs of his own. “Yes, y-you… _I._ I love you. So very much.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers in return, tears slipping down his worn cheeks. “M’so sorry, I can’t—”

“It’s alright. Just…you’re safe. You’re safe here with me, I promise. I promise.”

Aching to reach for him, to wipe every tear—Martin knows he cannot. Cannot touch him, not anymore. After so many days spent in each other’s company, he’s gotten to know Jon’s mind very well; has been made painfully aware of the devastating impact of years worth of trauma, body and soul. No one was allowed in. Not even Martin, sometimes—and now that trust they had only just begun to build is _gone gone gone_ , and Jon is left only with a name.

“Martin,” he murmurs, eyes still transfixed on his face. “I…know you. Your face.”

“Pity you can’t be rid of that.”

He laughs wetly—a tired joke far better than facing the bitter truth of this moment.

“How did…how did we meet?” Jon whispers, sending electricity shooting all through him as he touches his arm, oh so lightly, barely there.

Enough to bring Martin back to the present.

“You’ll…you’ll remember when we get out of here,” he assures, voice hardening into something like a fragile promise. “Right? You’ll remember. We can—we can go now—”

“Tell me.”

Said with no bite, no trace of compulsion.

An honest desire to know.

_He’ll remember if you tell him, you can stay here, you’ll find a way, you’ll find it you’ll find it—_

“We…worked together,” he begins, allowing just a ghost of smile to color his face. “With—with Tim and Sasha. Do you remember them?”

The names—their names must mean something to him, for Jon’s face falls at the mention, a short gasp belying a forgotten grief resurfaced.

“I…Sasha. Oh…Tim. Why—”

He cuts off rather suddenly, voice breaking as he takes a gasping inhale, clutching at his chest as if it might fall apart.

“Martin,” he sobs, bringing his other hand to clasp over his mouth. “W-why does it—it hurt so much? I-I-I can’t—can’t remember—what h-happened to them?”

“Hush, Jon—”

“It _hurts_ —”

“I know, darling, I know, I’m so sorry—”

Arms outstretched, Martin silently begs for Jon to reach back—and so he does, clinging onto Martin like he’s the only solid thing in this world, the only shred of a person that he has left. Perhaps he is.

“ _Martin_ ,” he gasps against his shoulder, desperate. “W-what happened? Wh-where—why—”

“Hush, hush now,” he murmurs into Jon’s hair, rocking him as he trembles in his arms. “I’m here. You’re here with me. Try to just focus on that, alright?”

“Martin—”

“You’re safe, and I’m here.”

_And I’m going to fix this._

_Whatever it takes._

He grits his teeth and holds him close.


End file.
